The Halo eBook

Joyselle sighed. “Perhaps, my dear Bathilde;
you would not mind not interrupting me again?
Yes—­think of the green coat. And that
you did not mind about your cap. Your life has
been very useful, ma mere, and you have devoted
children to love you and care for you.”

“Look at the crowd,” cried out the old
man suddenly. “It must be a funeral!”

“Father!” Madame Chalumeau crossed herself
with fingers that fairly trembled with haste.
“How can you? When it is your own
wedding.”

As the carriage stopped Victor leaned forward and
laid his hand on his father’s.

“Father—­this is a splendid and—­and
most happy day for all of us. There are nearly
fifty of us—­your descendants and their wives
and husbands, and we are very proud of you.
Will you give my mother your arm and follow Bathilde
and me up the steps?”

Old Joyselle skipped with great agility from the carriage,
and with a grand imitation of his son’s manner
followed that son into the church.

Brigit, standing near Felicite near the altar, felt
her eyes fill with tears as the little group appeared.
There was something infinitely touching in the sight
of the ancient couple coming back to the altar to
renew their vows after fifty years.

The priest’s voice was very weak, but it carried
well under the arched roof, and when the rings—­the
one for the bride bought by her male, the one for
the groom by his female descendants—­were
blessed and exchanged, many people were frankly weeping.

Joyselle had not joined his wife and son, but stood
opposite them, in front of a group of relations from
the country, his fine figure in its perfect clothes
contrasting strongly with them.

He was paler than Brigit had ever seen him, and his
eyes, bent to the ground for the most part, even more
deeply circled than they had been at the cafe
a few hours before.

The priest droned on; a baby cried, causing the bridegroom
to dart a furious glance in its direction; one of
the country cousins blew his nose with simple-hearted
zest; the old couple who had been kneeling were assisted
to their feet. “In nomine Patris, et Filii——­”

Brigit bowed her head with the rest, and then as she
raised it, met Joyselle’s miserable eyes; miserable,
accusing, despairing eyes.

The ceremony was over. Old Joyselle gave his
arm once more to his wife, and between two lines of
buzzing admirers conducted her to the carriage, followed
by his famous son, the rest of the family crowding
after.

“Pathetic, wasn’t it?” asked Theo.
“I was so afraid grand-pere would not
behave, but he is rather in awe of father. Did
you see my uncles, Antoine and Guillaume? Come,
petite mere, let’s go on. Our carriage
is waiting at the inn, to save time.”

Brigit followed obediently, but her mind was in a
whirl. What could be the matter with Victor?